


Look after me (and I'll look after you)

by TheIllusiveMantis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon ending, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIllusiveMantis/pseuds/TheIllusiveMantis
Summary: For some reason, Felix’s gaze is catching on the white breaths puffing out of Sylvain’s mouth. An old governess used to tell him tales of the North, how anyone who went into the mountains was destined to freeze to death on the icy slopes, and how the Sreng were only able to survive thanks to a pact they’d made with some foreign God. Glenn had helpfully pointed out that that story was probably made up. “And not freezing to death,” he appends to Sylvain’s list, reaching out and giving the leather straps on the bundled coat one last tug, because he can.“And not freezing,” Sylvain agrees with a slow smile, after he finally swings up onto his horse. “But don’t worry about me, I’m a Gautier.”Sylvain comes back from Sreng with treaty in hand and a fever that won't go away.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 158





	Look after me (and I'll look after you)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt:
> 
> _Sylvain and Felix are the corresponding margrave and duke in the new Fódlan, still skipping around each other. Things are going well, until Sylvain suddenly falls deadly sick, which makes Felix realize he can’t still protect him, even after the war is over. Seeing as Gautier is pretty cold for Sylvain’s delicate health now, he decides he wants Sylvain to move with him to Fraldarius, where their relationship finally concretes._
> 
> _I kinda want Mercedes involved in this, who is visiting Dimitri and Felix in the kingdom when a request from house Gautier arrives. I want her giving very informative words about Sylvain’s condition. I kinda wanna see a very descriptive sickfic! I haven’t had one of those in a very long time_
> 
> Ultimately, not as detailed on the sick stuff as OP probably would've liked, if anyone else wants to fill this I highly encourage them to! I just really like the prompt and wanted to do my own take on it :) and finally exorcise it from my wips, haha!

* * *

“You know the Sreng exchange goodbyes by breaking into song?”

Four months. Four months, at _least_ , until they’re able to meet again, and this is how their parting conversation is going to go. “I think you’ve mentioned it,” Felix intones. As much as he’s always glad for a good song, he doesn’t think they’ve got one between them.

There’d been a small rendezvous a few moons ago between Sylvain, a handful of his trusted men, and two members of the Sreng border tribe. That was where the plans for this extended sojourn had been laid, as well as where Sylvain had received this elaborate fur parka. _As a sign of friendship and allegiance to come_ , apparently.

Felix is fumbling with the leather strings on the garment, trying to bundle it tight against Sylvain’s body, but it’s unlike anything worn in Fódlan, and he grunts with frustration. “Why would an entire population bother with this,” he grumbles. “I don’t know how you’d put it on by yourself.” If he keeps talking, keeps fumbling, he doesn’t have to remove his hands. He doesn’t have to take a step back and watch Sylvain disappear into the mountains.

Sylvain only laughs. It’s one of his rarer laughs, barely more than a quiet breath, and doesn’t quite drift to where the rest of his men are standing a ways away, admiring the far-off view of the Sreng mountains from the outcrop on which they’re waiting. “It’s not traditionally meant to be put on by yourself,” Sylvain says, sounding almost shy. Felix looks up abruptly. 

“Because they’ve made it so complicated?” he huffs a breath. “Reminds me of my squiring days.”

“I’m sincerely sorry to remind you of your squiring days,” says Sylvain. Then he clears his throat. “Maqali said that usually, either your sworn brother, or your lover, is supposed to be the one who ties your coat on for you.”

Felix’s fumblings stop for a moment. His mind is blank, tongue heavy, cheeks infuriatingly red. Sylvain coughs out another short laugh. “Or, your mother, if neither of those is available,” he adds with a little grin, doing what Sylvain does best and papering over the moment until it’s something more annoying than uncomfortable.

“Well I’m certainly not your _mother_ ,” Felix quips, and then turns away so Sylvain can’t see how his blush spreads. _Where was that swift denial a second ago?_ , he might be wondering.

It’s time. He knows it, and Sylvain knows it too. Sylvain’s hand finds Felix’s shoulder and holds firm. Felix feels suddenly that he’d be blown away with the wind into the crags of the valley below without the weight of him there, holding him down. “I’ll miss you, Felix,” Sylvain says, sudden and unguarded, and Felix’s heart pangs. “I’ll write to you, okay? I know you’ll be busy with business at home and in Fhirdiad, so don’t feel pressured to write back, but-“

“I’ll write,” Felix says at once, something angular in him turning blunted at the sight of the instant happiness falling onto Sylvain’s face. “If I can make time to deal with Lord Vallotton regarding his- his _thrice-damned hereditary dispute_ , I think I can make time for you.”

“Aw, Felix, I’m flattered,” Sylvain says, returning to the easy rhythm of the way he teases him, and gives Felix’s shoulder a hard pat. He does seem happy, though, still. “I’m going to warn you, though, some of these letters might drag on. I’m going to be stuck up north for months on end with nothing to do.”

“What, the Sreng don’t have women?” Felix retorts.

It’s not like they haven’t all been joking about it. He knows Sylvain has already received a strongly-worded reminder in his latest letter from Ingrid about how she wasn’t going to be around to do any _remediary_ _diplomacy_ on his behalf. Sylvain chuckles, but it’s half-hearted, petering. For a moment, Felix wonders if he’s broken the stalemate between them, the one they’ve both maintained since the end of the war and all its desperate circumstances.

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain says at last. “Like I told Ingrid, I’m serious about this. I’m heading into Sreng to do a job. The last thing Faerghus needs is some chieftain lopping the new Margrave’s head off because he looked at his daughter the wrong way.”

How come Sylvain spent his entire young adulthood stringing along a neverending procession of women, and yet Felix is the one who feels like an asshole right now? “I know,” he mumbles.

“Treaties, diplomacy, and trying to use my beginner-level Srengi in a way that doesn’t end with me being hurled off a cliff after accidentally giving offense to someone,” says Sylvain, keeping count on his fingers with one hand as the other grazes over the saddle of his horse, preparing to mount. “Three _very_ delicate things, you know, delicate as any _winter flower_ I’m sure, and that’s all I’m going to focus on.” As if he hadn’t just been lamenting of nothing to do.

For some reason, Felix’s gaze is catching on the white breaths puffing out of Sylvain’s mouth. An old governess used to tell him tales of the North, how anyone who went into the mountains was destined to freeze to death on the icy slopes, and how the Sreng were only able to survive thanks to a pact they’d made with some foreign God. Glenn had helpfully pointed out that that story was probably made up. “And not freezing to death,” he appends to Sylvain’s list, reaching out and giving the leather straps on the bundled coat one last tug, because he can.

“And not freezing,” Sylvain agrees with a slow smile, after he finally swings up onto his horse. “But don’t worry about me, I’m a Gautier.”

* * *

It’s six months before the treaty is signed, six months before the letter comes bearing the good news, the most important of which is: _I’m coming home_.

Felix is in Fhirdiad at the time, and Sylvain addresses his letter to the three of them: Felix, Dimitri, Ingrid. It’s shorter than the ones he writes to Felix alone, which are sprawling in the way Sylvain’s letters usually are, as if he were there in person, unable to stop the flow of each remembered tale as it reached his lips. This one is all business, with an anxiously appended: _and I look forward to seeing you all soon. Dima, Ingrid, I hope holding down the fort isn’t driving you mad. Felix, I’ll stop by Fraldarius for a visit if you’re not still there in the capital when I arrive. Promise._

As it happens, the timing of Sylvain’s journey means that, if his business in Fhirdiad is concluded swiftly, he and Felix may be able to share part of the road home – perhaps. No doubt he’ll want to spend some time catching up with everyone in the capital. Felix would like to stay, himself, but winter will be taking hold soon, and he needs to be closer to home for it. Sylvain has promised him a visit to Fraldarius, and Felix intends to hold him to it, if not now, then in the spring. It feels strange, to catch himself thinking that way for the first time in years. _Spring_ , a definite, not a grim hypothetical constantly laced with: _if we live to see it, that is_.

One week after Sylvain’s letter marks one month in Fhirdiad. Felix and their new King are no closer to feeling at ease in these worn oak chairs, laden with Faerghus history, but at least these sorts of negotiations are coming easier and easier: borders to redraw, greivances to hear, considerations to be made in regards to lasting peace.

“I hope the people of Fódlan are as open-minded as Claude wants to believe of them,” Dimitri says, pacing, once the others have gone.

All week, the question of formal relations with Almyra. They haven’t even touched on the inbound treaty with the Sreng yet. “The idea of too much peace is always going to offend some people,” Felix grumbles. He hadn’t known a thing like that could be true until recently, that a continent devastated could still jump at the chance to shed more blood. _Cabinet ministers_ are the new worst enemies he knows.

In spite of the long hours they’ve been putting in around this table, Dimitri seems to be in a good humor. “You, for instance?” he asks, and the absurdity of it makes Felix scoff.

“We didn’t fight the war for _fun_ ,” he counters, and _means_ it, in spite of all the times he’s found himself wishing these political problems could be cut down as cleanly as an enemy soldier. “We all fought for the purpose of bringing an end to it.” Those that actually fought, anyway.

“Please, I’m only joking.” But their king is still smiling at him as he eases into a seat near the council table. “I know none of us is going to miss it. The uncertainty, the…” he trails off, appearing hung up on a thought. “…Yes. The uncertainty. Not knowing whether the people we love would return to be by our side.”

He’s so obvious when he’s thinking those lovelorn thoughts about his queen. Felix doesn’t begrudge either of them their happiness, but it’s like witnessing a storybook romance from the margins when you were content to leave it on the shelf in privacy. He’s thinking about this, and _not_ the way Dimitri’s words resonate with his own memories: lying awake in a tent at night, listening to Sylvain’s steady breathing closeby in the dark, wondering whether his sword would be swift enough to protect him. To protect him and his king and the others.

“It’s over now,” he says.

Dimitri nods in acknowledgment. He seems happy to come back to himself. “The war is over.”

A knock at the door startles them both. _News_. It’s the only thing they’re disturbed for. “Come in,” Dimitri calls.

At the door is Mercedes. That’s a surprise, even with her currently here in Fhirdiad. “There’s been a letter,” she says, not wasting any time. Dimitri and Felix both sit up straighter, which is all the prompting she needs to continue. “It’s from Captain Reverdin.” And Felix can see that he places the name a split second faster than Dimitri does: _House Gautier’s guard captain._

A letter from Sylvain’s man, but not from Sylvain. Dimitri and Felix exchange looks. _Don't jump to conclusions_ , Dimitri's expression seems intended to say, but it’s tempered by the fact that Felix knows he’s nervous, too. “And what news?” he asks.

She bows her head and continues, “Sylvain has taken ill. They're laid up at an inn between here and Gautier.”

 _Ill. Taken ill._ The words rattle in Felix’s ears. “Too ill to sit a horse?” Dimitri, giving voice to his own confused thoughts.

“It would seem so. There was mention of a bad fever. I’ll go to him now.” That’s her social visit cut short, then. Her soft voice is clear and unwavering.

“Of course.” Felix's head snaps back to Dimitri – he's the King of Faerghus again. “Go swiftly, and please give him myself and Felix's fondest regards when he is well enough to hear it. I’ll receive him eagerly in the capital when he’s recovered.” Then, as if remembering it’s okay to be more than just a king: “I know you’ll take good care of our dear friend.”

Mercedes is nodding, already making her way out of the room. Felix finally remembers his own voice.

“Wait,” he urges. Mercedes pauses at the door.

They’re both are looking at him expectantly now, and Felix swallows past the lump in his throat. What does he intend to do? Forfeit kingdom business and ask to join her? Felix is no healer. He is a sword, a shield, maybe even a statesman, sometimes, but in a sickroom, he is no one. “Keep me informed of his condition,” he manages after a moment's hesitation. His tone is clipped, abrupt, confused after an evening juggling nobles. “I'll be riding back for Fraldarius at dawn in two day's time. A letter might find me there.”

Mercedes nods, and then she's gone. Good. Felix doesn't want to keep her another second.

“I'm sure there's no cause for alarm,” Dimitri says once they're alone again. The irony of a blinded animal offering comfort. “My father used to say a Gautier was as hardy as an ox. He'll be well again soon, I'm confident of it.”

Felix nods. He's heard the saying, too. A Gautier had to be tough to survive a true Faerghus winter, after all. That was what Felix's father had told him, the day after Sylvain's small body had been dredged out of a well, nearly frozen solid, but miraculously alive. Sylvain didn't like to revisit that story, but when he did, he always focused on the toe, of all things. “I nearly lost a toe,” he'd say, laughing. “But, you know what they say about Gautiers and the winter chill.” _Guess all this Gautier blood is good for something,_ he sometimes added, a joke that was very much not a joke.

For the first time in his life, the memory of the well, perverse as it is, is a comfort.

 _If Sylvain can survive_ **_that_** , is the comfort.

* * *

It’s dawn on Wednesday when Felix looks out the window and catches sight of his own household guard saddling the horses, preparing for the day's journey to Fraldarius territory. He sees no one else: no incoming riders. No messengers.

He’d taken breakfast with Ingrid that morning. Unsurprisingly she too was impatient for more news on Sylvain’s condition, but with the number of fresh faces flooding into the capital, she’s been occupied just staying abreast of her knightly duties. _Do you remember that time in Arianrhod_ , she began, over their matching plates of eggs and sausage, _and it wouldn’t stop raining, and we all got sick and miserable?_ And Felix finished for her, _But not Sylvain_. And Ingrid had nodded like that was a good reason not to worry too much.

On the contrary, it somehow makes Felix even more nervous. He wonders if Ingrid is trying to reassure herself, too.

Dimitri catches him on the way out. Neither is the type for drawn-out goodbyes, but Felix stops when he sees the tension written on their King's face. “Still no news,” Dimitri reports, mercifully sparing Felix the trouble of asking. “The treaty arrived via emissary last night, but the Gautier man had nothing new to report. I must ask, Felix. Are you planning to go to him?”

In spite of himself, Felix colors. _Of course_ Dimitri knows, he isn't a fool, neither of them are, and yet he can't bring himself to lock eyes with their king. “I'm heading home,” he says at last. “Mercedes has promised to write. Anyone not a healer would only be in the way.”

Dimitri nods, bracing a hand on Felix's shoulder, so _gently_ , a habit formed from years of bowing behind his own strength. “I can't have both of you out of commission,” he agrees. An awkward beat passes. Felix shrugs out from under Dimitri's grip. He makes it about four feet.

“Felix, wait,” Dimitri says again, before Felix can saddle up and ride away. “I feel we should talk. About... about the future of Faerghus. About what I, what _we_ , want for it.”

 _We._ Dimitri and Byleth. “What does that have to do with anything?” Felix returns, aiming for a neutral tone and landing somewhere closer to a growl. Haven’t they been discussing the future of Faerghus for a month now?

“I was only thinking,” Dimitri continues, sounding duly hesitant in a way he hasn’t managed for a long time, “about yourself and Sylvain. About what you might... want. Together. Once he’s well, of course, Goddess willing.”

“ _What we want_ ,” Felix echoes, numbly. His cheeks are stinging with something other than the Faerghus cold.

“Anything,” Dimitri clarifies quickly. “Forgive me for speculating, but… cohabitation, or even marriage, perhaps.”

Now Felix has to turn away entirely. Whatever is going on on his face, he isn't going to show it to Dimitri.

“I'm sorry if I've overstepped or made assumptions,” Dimitri rushes to continue, unable even now to keep from trampling over something delicate, “but I wanted you to know that there is space to have those conversations, if you should want.”

A member of Felix's household guard rushes up to join them, the Duke’s riding gloves in hand, and Felix gratefully latches onto the shift back to duty that it brings. “Thanks,” he manages stiffly to Dimitri, turning back to look at him with his most businesslike expression, “but there's no need.”

Like himself, Dimitri is a man Faerghus-bred, and should know a conversation-ender when he hears one. When did he get so infuriatingly _interested_? He’s standing by the horse, watching Felix saddle up. Felix knows what he should have said: _There’s nothing between myself and Sylvain_ , because officially, there _isn’t_. But he’s bad at lying. It’s not one of his natural gifts. “It’s not my wish to pry or make you uncomfortable, but I’m not as oblivious as you might want to believe,” Dimitri presses. “This is your happiness, and I want to take it seriously. You are both my cherished friends, and I know the weight of tradition has not been… kind to you.”

Felix snorts. A hideous understatement, if not for himself, at least, then for Sylvain. Dimitri seems to read it as encouragement. “Let me be on your side,” he continues, as frustratingly forthright as any of Ashe’s knights. How did the Professor manage to take a wild beast and mold him into a man again?

“We aren’t-“ Felix begins, haltingly, and wavers. He wants to give Dimitri _something_ , to offer him that one last inch that he’s so stubbornly always refused to give. “We haven’t…”

He isn’t even sure what he’s trying to say anymore; the words fail in the chill air. Dimitri gives him another of those way-too-gentle _pats,_ though he can only reach his elbow from where Felix is astride his horse. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t know how to interpret it. “Not yet, then, but soon, perhaps. If it’s what you want.”

He feels as exposed as he might with a sword at his belly. “It is,” Felix admits, quietly.

Dimitri smiles at that, so earnest that Felix has to look away. The effect Felix’s trust has on him is too blinding. “Safe travels, Felix,” he says at last. “I hope happier news reaches us soon.”

Felix spurs his horse, and then he and his household guard are kicking up snow, leaving Fhirdiad behind them.

* * *

Once, Felix had become ill when visiting Gautier. They'd been children then, and warnings about the chill had seemed as distant as fairy tales. Sylvain never seemed to feel the cold. He fell into a snowdrift and started laughing, and Felix and Ingrid, eager and curious to share in his joy, had jumped in as well, until they were all covered head-to-toe with snow. It was freezing cold, Felix remembers. He’d probably cried. He doesn't like to remember that part.

Like the Galateas he and his father and Glenn were meant to return to Fraldarius at sunup the next day, but Felix had been shivering with fever by morning, and they'd had to impose on their hosts one day longer. The halls of house Gautier were cold and drafty, and even under the blankets Felix did not feel warm.

Sylvain stayed with him. He'd been there the entire time, dabbing a cool cloth to his forehead, taking his meals next to him. A murmured “Felix?” and a poke to his nose whenever he saw his eyes open. Questions: _Want some of my soup? Do you want me to read to you? Here – if I get in there next to you, is that better? Do you feel warm yet?_ Felix had huddled into his chest, almost too warm, but comfortable.

The now-late Margrave Gautier hadn't minded Sylvain sitting with Felix at first, apparently unconcerned by the possibility of his son and heir catching cold, because _a Gautier didn't catch cold, after all,_ but finding them huddled together beneath the blankets had been too much. He'd stood at the doorway as stony as a statue and called his son's name in a sharp voice. At the time Felix only stared wantingly at Sylvain’s back, missing his warmth and wondering why it sounded like he was in trouble.

They’ve never talked about it, but he can guess what that conversation might’ve been like, between Sylvain and his father.

In the end, Felix's own father had borne him home to Fraldarius on horseback, pressed to his chest and swaddled in blankets, to recover in the comfort of his own bed. He remembers distinctly how much warmer that bed was, but in spite of the hovering presence of the household maids and dedicated healers, he'd asked for Sylvain, over and over, not understanding why he couldn't come to him.

He would’ve come, though, Felix is sure. He would have.

* * *

Felix and his company decide to break at an inn along the border of Fraldarius. This time of year the light of the sun is fleetingly precious, and even on roads well-traveled night riding comes with perils. A single misstep, an unseen rock in the snow could spell doom for horse and rider. They’re cutting the risk.

Sitting at the table with his guard, Felix thinks of another inn much like this one. Sylvain may very well be recovered by now, thanks to Mercedes' expert care, and on his way to Fhirdiad to give Dimitri the report he'd been expecting. The two of them just missing each other, riders passing in the night.

In spite of himself, he’s unable to stop revisiting the awkward exchange with Dimitri. _Marriage, perhaps. Marriage_. The word bounces around in his brain, inflicting havoc on the carefully balanced equation that is Felix's Relationship with Sylvain. On one side of the scale is Sylvain's history: his avoidant dance around commitment, the duty to his family he both shoulders and denies, the fact that they've never given words to anything between them. On the _other_ side are the memories of hungry kisses shared in tents during the war, the pile of accounts from Sreng of every experience Sylvain wishes they could have shared together, the way Sylvain said his name: _Felix_ , and the smile he wore when he said it.

Felix is not well-versed in matters of the heart, but this he feels in his gut.

It's after dinner, and Felix is preparing to retire to bed when there comes an urgent rapping at his door. “Your Grace?” he hears.

“Enter.”

Of the two men standing there, one is unfamiliar. A messenger, he quickly assesses, heartrate quickening in his chest.

“Your Grace,” the man says, wasting no time, “I come with a message from Miss Mercedes von Martritz for you, sir.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, practiced calm at odds with his flyaway pulse, and opens it right there in front of them, scanning its contents and absorbing them in the same breath.

The sight of Mercedes’ normally calm, loopy handwriting turned to chickenscratch turns his blood to ice before comprehension does.

_I'm sorry to report that…_

_His men are blaming an ailment called…_

_…talking of venturing back into Sreng to… but it may be two weeks or more before that yields any…_

_It's becoming clear that this little inn isn't equipped for…_

_I don't wish to alarm you, nor to mislead you about…_

_but I'm afraid that if we cannot soon find some method of treatment…._

Felix puts down the letter. His throat is closing. Automatic, he heads to the chair before the fireplace, where his coat is laid out to dry, and swings it back on, nimble fingers buckling the clasps, _snap, snap_ , in tempo.

To the messenger sent by Mercedes (a man in direct service of the Crown, it looks like; one of Dimitri’s own), he says, “You’ve ridden here swiftly. Thank you. Go over the directions with me so I can find my way.”

* * *

It’s still dark as pitch by the time Felix finally sees the humble glow of torchlight in the distance, though by now it must be early morning. He knows he’s in the right place before he’s even close enough to read the sign by the light of the fire; once or twice on the road from Gautier to Fhirdiad they’d stopped at this very inn, he and his old man and Glenn. Might as well have been when the saints were alive, yet suddenly the memories feel vivid. He slides off the saddle and minds his own horse, as well as he can in his haste or Sylvain will be upset. 

The door to the inn is locked tight for the night, meaning in the end he’ll have to disturb somebody anyway. He knocks, expecting a bleary-eyed innkeeper scolding him for the late hour, and instead comes face-to-face with the specter of Mercedes.

In spite of himself, Felix starts. She’s pale. He hasn’t seen anybody look so ragged since the war.

“ _Felix_ ,” Mercedes says, seeming to come to life as she blinks at him. Felix gives her a simple nod and moves to step inside. “In _this_ weather - get out of that cloak and get by the fire, you’ll catch your death. Be still a moment, please.”

He feels like he’s going to be sick, standing anchored to the ground after she directs him to the tiny hearth, but he lets Mercedes fuss. Annette had told him he should, once.

 _The past few days have been very long indeed_ , Mercedes had written in her letter. And yet she still has the energy for him. For _Felix_ , who is fine.

“You can’t take him back to Gautier,” Felix yammers, the first real words out of his mouth. Mercedes patiently tuts at him as she smooths down the front of his tunic, despite the sleeplessness he sees under her eyes. “In the morning. You said you would- _don’t_ take him to Gautier.“

“He can’t stay here,” Mercedes reminds him gently, as she takes his hands and places them closer to the fire. As if Felix hasn’t spent the last three hours replaying every sentence of her letter in his mind, word by word. “It’s an old building. He needs somewhere where the chill can’t reach him-“

“Then the _last_ place he should be is in that estate.” She’s never been. She can’t know.

Felix takes his hands back, clenching them firmly at his sides. He’s staring into the corridors, the itch in his bones starting to tear at his skin.

She must see it’s pointless to hold him back any longer. “Come see him,” she says.

* * *

The wooden floor whispers warnings beneath their feet. On the hours-long ride Felix’s mind had been a furor of urgent questions, yet in the face of that simple, _Come see him_ , everything else seemed to have fallen away, unimportant.

A door pushes open, and Felix steps inside.

There’s a humble straw mattress piled high with blankets in this room. Sylvain is there. The air steals out of Felix’s lungs.

“ _Hnh_ ,” Sylvain mumbles. He’s sleeping fitfully, or stirring, reacting to the sound of their quiet footsteps. Mercedes looks bad, but Sylvain looks like shit, and the room smells worse than he looks.

A weight makes itself known in his chest, constricting, constricting. It’s one he knows well and he wills it back: _No_. This isn’t like that. Sylvain is _alive_.

Mercedes is at his bedside now, finding a damp cloth in a small pail that’s been placed nearby. She dabs it soothingly at his brow, and Sylvain twitches, leaning almost into it for a moment before his face falls slack again.

Then he mutters, “ _Felix_ ,” unmistakeable.

Felix’s eyes widen. He takes a step towards the bed, involuntary. “Sylvain?” he tries, suddenly unsure. “It’s me.”

_“Hrmh…”_

“He’s asleep,” says Mercedes.

“He said my name, he knows I’m here.”

“He’s been calling for you for days,” she says, and the weight that had settled in the pit of Felix’s gut becomes as hot as a brand inside him. _Felix_ , he hears in his mind, an enfeebled voice, calling, pleading. _Felix_ , to no answer.

It takes him another moment to grasp for words. They come out broken. “You didn’t tell me.”

“You would’ve felt you had to come.”

“I came anyway. You should have told me.” How can he stand here and reprimand the one person who’s been here for Sylvain in his hour of need? “I should have been here. I should have been – _damn it.”_

Mercedes doesn’t argue with him. Maybe she knows she’s not the one that Felix is angry with.

Felix goes to stand next to her. It doesn’t feel right to offer her physical comfort – they’ve never been like that before, it’s not like with Annette. The only time Mercedes has ever touched him has been to administer the healing glow of faith magic. His hand raises anyway, then loses purpose, hanging there between them.

“You can touch him,” Mercedes says, misunderstanding, and Felix swallows hard.

He does want to touch him, to touch _Sylvain_ , but the space between them feels simultaneously vast and perilously close. When Felix touches his skin and finds it clammy and sick with sweat, it will make this horrid, foul-smelling reality something tangible and he doesn’t want that. He wants to push it away as hard as he can, run out the door and back to Fraldarius, to await Sylvain’s next letter, and the promised visit after a long campaign in Sreng.

A fiction. Sylvain is here. Needing.

With sudden determination, Felix reaches out and finds Sylvain’s hand. It’s like he expected: dried sweat, pallid skin cool to the touch. He grips the limp fingers between his own as tight as he dares and holds fast.

Sylvain’s eyes open. Unfocused, but _there_. Present. A pool of amber, swimming.

“ _Felix_ ,” he says again, voice a hoarse scrape out of his throat, and this time Felix forgets how to breathe altogether. “ _You came_.”

* * *

“Tell me everything,” is the first thing Felix says when they’re huddled together, outside of the room. “Don’t leave anything out, even if I won’t understand. I need to hear it.”

Mercedes yawns, which is fair. One of Sylvain’s own men is with him now; first break she’s had in who knows how long and she’s going to spend it recounting to Felix the hell they’ve toiled in for the last 65 hours.

“He’s delirious, and his fever is very high,” she says, to start with.

Felix nods, grasping onto each new detail. “Okay.”

“He can only eat and drink a little. If this continues, he’s going to lose an unsustainable amount of weight.”

“ _Healthy men don’t die of fevers,”_ Felix suddenly says, ignoring her in favor of the thought that’s been chewing at the corners of his mind all night, Mercedes and her years of expertise be damned. “Surely it’ll soon break and pass.”

Mercedes is patient with him. Out of sympathy, perhaps, because Felix hasn’t earned anything else. “He’s having vigors,” she says, “Uncontrolled bouts of shivering which accompany high levels of fever. The fact that they’ve persisted for days on end is deeply concerning. And none of the traditional remedies I’m familiar with seem to be having much effect. From what Sylvain’s been able to tell me, there must be something the Sreng use for it, but I’ve been unable to glean anything else.” 

“He woke when I was there,” Felix says. _Never mind that it was for about fifteen seconds_. “I’ll get it out of him.”

“He seemed frustrated when I asked. I’m not sure that he knows.”

They sit in that for a moment. Felix is helpless. There’s an impossibly long river stretching out in front of him, and in his hand is a sword, but no paddle. The one thing it turns out he really needs.

But he knows one thing.

“Bring him to Fraldarius, and put him under the care of my household,” Felix says suddenly, heat and determination catching root fast in his chest. “From here the distance is about the same. The climate is warmer, and the estate is designed to keep the weather out.” Unlike the Gautier mansion, which was practically a testament to the nature of the family that lived there: as craggy and roughhewn as the surrounding mountains. At least until Sylvain.

Mercedes nods once. “Alright. But you need to make sure the household is ready to receive him. Have a room ready, a smaller one with a fireplace and a good window. And the Gautier estate will have to be notified of the change of plans-”

“I’ll handle it,” Felix says. Unthinking, his hand has somehow found Mercedes’ shoulder. “Get some rest. And… thank you.”

Mercedes gives one great, big, indulgent yawn, as if Felix has given her permission. “You might write to Ann for me,” she says.

* * *

Sylvain isn’t lucid the next morning, but his chest is rising and falling. Felix checks in on him, just to see. He’d meant to steal only a quick glance, and not to disturb him on the cusp of a miserable journey, but then he catches the sheen of sweat on his brow faintly glowing in the candlelight, and he pushes the door the rest of the way open without another thought.

Beside the bed, a man from house Gautier jerks awake. He turns to see Felix and sputters. “My Lord Fraldarius-” The man’s voice is gravelly from poor sleep. “I- apologize. Please, allow me to tend to the Margrave. Sreng fever is contagious, they say-”

Felix ignores him, heading to Sylvain’s bedside and dismissing the man with nothing more than a curt nod. (Among the few perks of dukedom.) He observes the pail and cloth beside the bed and satisfies himself with their cleanliness before he presses the damp pill of the towel to Sylvain’s temple. Like magic, near the point of contact, Sylvain’s eyes stutter open once more and, a few seconds later, they appear to actually see him.

“ _Felix_ ,” Sylvain murmurs, and then, sounding mystified, “You came.” It’s a lot less charming the second time.

Felix forces himself to keep up the steady motion of the cloth, trying not to let his face betray his heartbreak. What did he really expect? Didn’t Mercedes tell him he was delirious, and deathly ill? And here Felix was, naively expecting him to crack a joke or a smile. He’s never missed either one more. “I was here yesterday,” he reminds him, unwavering.

“Don’t…” Sylvain attempts. His voice is cracked, though Felix has watched Mercedes tipping water down his throat. Felix’s hand stills.

“Don’t what?”

Sylvain makes another noise from the back of his throat, another attempt, maybe. “Don’t go,” he finally rasps, and this time Felix’s entire arm trembles.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Felix assures him, lowering the cloth back to its bucket, because he doesn’t think he can hold anything anymore. “You’re coming home with me. To Fraldarius.”

Sylvain’s eyes edge closed again. Felix is sure he’s slid back into unconsciousness, when he hears, “Finally.”

“Finally?” Felix prompts, greedy for his words, even though he should let Sylvain get the sleep he needs.

There’s the tiniest little smile on Sylvain’s lips when he breathes, “I always wanted, to go home with you.”

* * *

That time as children was already a fading memory the next time Felix became ill. At the academy he spent a week with aches and chills, and they were proving more stubborn than he was. He’d resigned himself to being shut inside his room, recovering. A rare act of surrender to forces outside of his control.

Sylvain knocked a few times one afternoon, he remembers. “Felix? You doing okay in there?” and “I brought you your dinner. Okay if I come in?”

Felix doesn’t remember if he’d waited for his answer or not. Possibly he’d been too weak to say anything back. Sylvain came in either way, putting his tray by his bedside and setting down a new glass of water. Ah, that’s right - he’d been bringing him his water too.

“Thanks,” Felix said feebly, or maybe he’d just grunted and hoped Sylvain would get the picture. Then he picked up the bowl and spoon like they were instruments of war, determined to eat without assistance.

“Need anything else?” Sylvain offered when the food was done and Felix was settled back against the pillows, and then, almost hesitant, “Want me to sit with you?”

Felix made an ambivalent noise. Sylvain sat.

He doesn’t know how long Sylvain had been there. He’d woken once and seen him slumped in his chair, an open book in his lap. In the morning light many hazy hours later, he was gone.

* * *

The journey to Fraldarius is, predictably, long and wretched. Felix and Mercedes take turns, in the back of the wagon beside Sylvain, and at the head of the carriage behind the beasts. Outside the wagon, the land is beautiful and unclaimed, ruled by hawks and foxes, trees and streams. Inside the wagon, Sylvain’s ragged, whistling breaths are both a slow and fast form of torture. When it’s Felix’s turn to sit outside the wagon he counts down the seconds until he goes back in.

If the Goddess grants them one kindness, it’s that they manage to arrive to the Fraldarius estate without anything taking a turn for the worse. As soon as they pull in front of the house, servants appear with a litter and carefully bear the new Margrave onto it. Felix watches from somewhere outside himself.

Carried over the threshold of Felix’s house. Sylvain might think it was funny if he were here to laugh.

Mercedes emerges and spends just enough time outside the wagon to stretch her arms and legs, her face scrunched up, not taking in the sight of the unfamiliar manor before she steps inside the house. Home has rarely felt like home to him, yet Felix knows it will be a different place after this. With a deep breath, he follows.

* * *

_Here’s_ a good joke Sylvain might have appreciated: Felix still attempts to get some work done the first day back. What a doomed venture.

The only thing that makes it off his desk is a scribbled missive to Dimitri that comprises of little more than: _Sylvain has come with me to Fraldarius. No new developments._ Then he grudgingly hands it off to an assistant, along with a request to furnish it with more details and niceties. Dimitri always prefers a note written in his Shield’s own hand, but he’ll understand.

Like a rabbit in a snare, Felix goes back to Sylvain. He’s sleeping deeply, his ragged breaths down to something quiet and almost restful, and it makes Felix feel less like he wants to crawl out the open window. He takes his vigil at his bedside, marking every second of peace. For the first time since the letter, a shred of hope is crawling its way in. Felix wants to fight it, but he doesn’t have the strength.

“ _Hrmn_ ,” he hears from the bed after what feels like a few minutes, and starts, his head jerking up. His neck is sore. He hears again, “Felix?” 

“Still here,” Felix says, quiet, in case Sylvain’s closed eyes mean he’s muttering in his sleep again. Felix steals a quick glance to the window. It’s dark. How? It feels like he’s been listening intently to Sylvain’s breathing this whole time. “Not leaving.”

He catches motion at the side of the bed. It’s Sylvain’s hand, flexing over the sheets, and after only a brief moment of hesitation Felix takes it with his own. Sylvain smiles. “There you are.”

Then he slurs something else, but Felix can’t make it out. Sounds like gibberish. Half-words and phrases, formed in delirium. “Sorry,” Felix says dumbly in response, not understanding. It makes Sylvain chuckle a little, for some reason, and then he suddenly coughs so loud and so sharp that Felix’s heart hammers like thunder.

It’s the ugliest cough Felix has heard in his life. He doesn’t feel so calm anymore.

Sylvain’s throat is still rasping as his cough subsides, falling back into the pillows, oblivious to Felix’s racing pulse in his palm. His eyes are hooded, barely open now. With his other hand he pets Felix’s hand gracelessly. Half out of his mind, he’s still drunkenly desperate for human interaction.

“It’ll be okay,” Felix says stiffly. It’s a miscalculation, he’s going to make Sylvain laugh again, because his tone says that this whole situation is anything but okay. “Mercedes is here. We’ll… we’ll take care of you.”

Sylvain just leans back and looks at him. His gaze is so cloyingly sweet. Felix suddenly feels like he has to avert his eyes. Taking care of Sylvain is the _least_ he can do as a friend, yet Sylvain has always been grateful for the slightest kindness. As if he can’t believe himself worthy of the care he’s always shown to his friends.

“-My coat,” Sylvain suddenly babbles, or at least it sounds like it.

Felix stares blankly. He thinks of the complicated parka, the one Sylvain had ridden away in. They’d wanted to burn it; Felix had refused. “It’s here in the house,” he says, then, making the connection, “Are you cold?”

On some impulse, he touches his palm to Sylvain’s cheek. He’s burning hot and shivers at Felix’s touch, then leans into it. An insane picture of crawling into bed with Sylvain flickers through Felix’s mind and he shakes it away. Sylvain had done that for him once. They were children then.

He doesn’t hear the door, or footsteps. “I’ll take over for a bit,” comes Mercedes’ voice. Beneath his fingers, Sylvain is asleep again.

“Have you eaten?” she continues quietly. “Rested? You need to do those things too, Felix.”

The last real sleep of any kind he’d gotten was an accidental nap in the back of the wagon, his head against Sylvain’s blanketed knee, until the jostle of the horses jerked him back to wakefulness again.

He casts a look at Sylvain, then decides to stand. The room spins for a moment and Mercedes reaches out a hand to steady him.

“You can come back when you’ve eaten, bathed, and gotten a few hours of sleep,” she says, like Felix is a willful child. He could put up a show of disobedience, but there’s no fight left.

He steps back out into the hallway and the exhaustion comes over him in waves. Seems like it was waiting for him just outside this room.

* * *

It had rained for a week in Arianrhod, and each day waiting for the Imperial army felt longer than the last. Within days half their number were sniffling and coughing, and Felix glared at everyone until one morning, he realized his head swam with more than just the falling rain.

He’d been on his way back from the meager training grounds, beating up damp straw soldiers until his muscles ached, when Sylvain found him.

“You need to rest,” Sylvain said. His tone was humorless. “I just had to wrangle Ingrid into a bed and I’ll do the same for you, you know.”

“I’m fine,” Felix insisted. He didn’t have time to be sick. Any day now they were going to be sieged, and then he could worry about being either sick or dead, maybe. “Need to eat.”

“Let’s just get you to your room,” Sylvain said. “I’ll bring you something from the kitchens. Just like old times, eh?”

It isn’t fair, Felix remembers thinking. Sylvain never gets sick.

“I’m immune to the cold,” Sylvain said as he held open the door, as if Felix had spoken aloud. Flames, maybe he had. “Call it one of the perks of being a Gautier.”

For some reason, Felix’s eyes drifted down. Sylvain’s tunic was partially unbuttoned, and there were wisps of red hair visible on his chest. He ogled unashamedly. Weird, Felix didn’t usually get horny like this until after a battle.

“Felix,” Sylvain sighed as Felix leaned in to silence him with a hungry bite on his neck. “Now’s not the time.”

Why did he wait until now to stop being such a slut? Felix thought, angrily, Right when we’re about to die.

“Get in bed and lie down,” Sylvain tried to order him. Playing nursemaid really didn’t suit him. Felix bit down harder.

“Make me,” he growled, and for a moment forgot they weren’t children quarrelling. Sylvain’s eyes sparked.

“Alright,” he agreed, voice low, and pushed Felix into the shitty mattress before crawling over him.

Felix _did_ fall asleep after.

* * *

The manor is quiet, the sky outside still dark. Felix has no idea how much time has elapsed, staring into the blackness where his bedchamber ceiling should be. For some reason, his heart starts beating fast. He steps out of bed and fumbles to the door.

Somehow he hears Mercedes’ quiet, steady voice hallways apart. Feels like he would’ve heard it from Derdriu. He’s drawn so urgently to it until he’s standing at the doorway of Sylvain’s room. 

Sylvain is shivering violently. He looks distressed or in pain, and oblivious to Mercedes’ care, or for that matter, the sound of Felix’s heart like a thundering drum in his chest.

“Mercedes,” Felix chokes, and before he knows it he is next to her, beside Sylvain. “Is he alright?” What a fool question; of course he’s not alright.

“These are the vigors I told you about,” Mercedes says. She’s got one hand over Sylvain’s chest, over his lungs, and her palm is glowing. Felix swallows. His gaze trails to Mercedes’ other hand, which is clutching Sylvain’s own. Giving him a lifeline.

He doesn’t even have time to think a thought like, _that should be my job_. His hand moves of its own accord until it’s replacing Mercie’s in Sylvain’s sweaty palm. It’s an instinct as natural as eating or drinking: a physiological need. He feels a tension releasing from his own bones, one he hadn’t even noticed settling in.

“Felix is here,” Mercedes says, so calm, like Felix’s desperation isn’t taking up every bit of oxygen in the room.

He almost expects another dazed, _Felix, you came_ , from a Sylvain who can’t even place that he’s here in the Fraldarius estate, in the room he’d sometimes slept in as a child. But he just continues to shiver like he’s stranded in a Gautier winter, without any sign of knowing they’re there.

“Is there _anything_ I can do,” Felix mutters, to anyone, both of them, himself, maybe the Goddess, if she’s listening. Mercedes just hums.

“Stay here for a while,” she says. “You’re doing all you can.”

* * *

The tremors, violent and terrifying, subside to something gentler after about 45 minutes. Felix and Mercedes have placed their chairs in front of the fire. It’s warm in this room, but the crackling of the flames is a comfort. Shifting, changing, alive.

“You never wrote to Ann, did you,” Mercedes guesses.

Felix doesn’t answer for a moment. His eyes are welling with tears and for once, he doesn’t feel the sting of humiliation in letting them be seen. He feels the first one break the dam, trailing down his cheek and plopping visibly onto his tunic. He struggles with the bob in his throat as he shakes his head.

There hasn’t been time to write to Annette. She’s somewhere cloistered on the other side of the Kingdom, enjoying the fulfillment of her teaching post somewhere far away from this nightmarish room. Once this news reaches _her_ , too, it will finally be fully real.

“We survived a whole damn war,” Felix says. He can’t manage anything else right away.

Mercedes just nods. She’s staring out into the fire, eyes vacant from exhaustion. _She needs to properly sleep_ , Felix thinks with a dull ache, even while his own head spins. Every second Sylvain spends without her is one where his pain isn’t lessened, but she’s only one woman. There should be another healer arriving sometime tomorrow, but tomorrow feels infinitely far away, every second marked by jagged, rasping, strenuous breaths.

 _Click. Clink_. A houseservant has let herself in. She leaves the herbal teas in front of the both of them and bows her exit. Special blends to bolster their immune systems; it can’t hurt.

Neither of them touch their tea right away. A thoughtful bent has returned to Mercedes’ hooded eyes. “Nothing is guaranteed for anyone in the end, except the Goddess’ mercy,” she murmurs. More than anything else Felix wishes he could keep platitudes about a merciful Goddess far, far away from this room.

His throat bobs harshly again and Felix bites it back. What good is his pride? Nothing, useless, but if he starts crying he’ll be eight years old again and unable to stop. A child, who still needs his best friend to run soothing hands over his scalp and his back until the tears are gone and he’s hiccupping into Sylvain’s snow-kissed, tear-stained cloak. _Sylvain_ is the one who needs him right now, and Felix can’t bring him even that much comfort.

“ _Ghnn_.” At this point the noises from Sylvain’s bed, as abrupt and frightening as they are, are no longer surprising, though they make Felix’s heart clench every time. He’s probably in pain — Mercedes said his lungs were struggling, filling with fluid. Felix knows why she can’t ease his pain right now; until she’s had a proper rest, she has nothing left in her to give.

Would that he had learned some faith magic himself, when Byleth had offered. In his mind’s eye he sees himself at 17, a child with a sword convinced he knew everything. “ _I’m such a fool_ ,” he mutters, as if Mercedes can follow the thread of his thoughts. 

“Felix, don’t.”

But his tongue is loosened now. “I feel… helpless,” he confesses, watching as Mercedes’ gaze takes on that same tenderness as whenever she likened him to her own younger brother. He’d quarreled with her about it, but now, he wants to drown in it. “What good was it all?”

“What good was what?” Her eyes are still so soft.

His mouth tightens. He raises his arm, as if he can still feel the weight of his weapon in his hand. “War,” he spits. “Training. Fighting. What was the point? What was the point if…”

A noise escapes Felix’s throat. If he keeps it in any longer, he’s going to convulse as violently as Sylvain. More horrible, wretched sounds fill the room; Mercedes gets up out of her chair.

“I’ll write to Ann,” she says, as Felix surrenders to it.

* * *

The next day brings their first real hint of relief, thank the Goddess or whoever else was out there. Ingrid arrives just before midday with a palace healer in tow, and throws her arms around Felix when she sees him.

It’s a pair of alien sensations, her warmth, her scent. They haven’t held each other since they were kids. Three people in his life he was so close to, and all he’s known of them since is a patchwork of touches. Fucking Faerghus. “How is he?” Ingrid asks, real terror on her face where mere days ago there was none.

Felix can only imagine the whirlwind that followed Mercedes’ missive to the palace, the unravelling chain that resulted in Ingrid being here now. They probably knew it was useless to try and stop her. He holds Ingrid’s gaze. “Not good,” he replies, “but he’s alive.” Let no one accuse him of dishonesty, at least.

The healer from the palace is named Hamsa, and it turns out her family originally owned an apothecary on the ancestral border between Almyra and what is now Goneril. Right away she produces a satchel of something out of her skirts and says she has an idea for how to treat the Margrave, and they all watch dumbfoundedly as she busies herself producing the herbal drink before she gives it to Mercedes to administer.

Felix is closeby, watching as Mercedes takes Sylvain’s palm and squeezes, firmly. “Sylvain, I need you to drink this for me,” she tells him, patient and steady. They’ve already got him propped up on enough pillows not to choke on what they give him, but it’ll help if he’s conscious.

He twitches, but doesn’t stir. Felix tries. “Sylvain,” he says. Urgent, like he’s about to ask a question. Sylvain shifts again, this time with purpose.

“Fe…” It barely leaves his lips, the old nickname that Felix claimed to hate. Or maybe he just loses strength halfway through.

Without thinking, Felix reaches out and takes the medicine from Mercedes, puts his hand behind Sylvain’s head where his red curls are a sweaty thatch. “I need you to drink this.” He isn’t entirely sure whether Sylvain is awake when he swallows it down, throat bobbing, but he’s out like a light after.

Felix sits down next to him, exhausted like he’s been traveling on foot, as he hears one of his own attendants offer to show Ingrid and Hamsa their rooms. The sun is somewhere in the sky, but besides that time feels unreal.

Hamsa bows out, and Mercedes with her. Ingrid lingers with Felix for hours as they whisper to each other, keeping vigil as if through their combined forces they can delay death itself.

The room is orange with evening when Ingrid yawns. Felix recognizes the exhaustion on her face. It reminds him once again of Arianrhod.

“I don’t want to leave,” she says, when they make eye contact.

“Go,” Felix says. “I’ll stay with him.”

* * *

“Felix?”

Felix spends several confused seconds on the cusp between dream and reality. At least it feels like seconds; when he blinks his eyes open, the curtains are closed and the room is lit by candlelight, and he swears under his breath before he sees the bed and _stops_.

“Morning,” Sylvain greets croakily, the slightest pull of a smile on his face as he watches Felix. With his eyes open as they are, he must know it isn’t morning.

Words race and die on Felix’s tongue. He leans closer towards the bed, watching intently as he sees Sylvain’s eyes, lined red, blinking droopily, shutting and then opening again. Watching him right back. _Goddess_. “You-“ Felix swallows and attempts again. “You’re awake.”

“Feels like I got kicked in the head,” Sylvain begins with great effort, stopping again for a long wheezing moment to fill his lungs, “by a horse.”

He’s _really_ awake, not just phasing through delirium, and trying so hard to speak, but it looks like hell. Another moment passes and Felix scans the room anxiously for some water, finally finding some set aside on the dresser nearby. Whether it’s meant for himself or Sylvain isn’t clear. He grabs at the glass.

“Are you thirsty?”

Sylvains says something that sounds like, “Goddess, yes.”

Felix leans in beside him again, puts another hand through the back of Sylvain’s oily-damp hair. _If he’s this lucid, the filth is probably driving him mad_ , Felix thinks as he tips the glass of water gently over his mouth and lets him get a few gulps of it.

“Maybe we can wash your hair,” he offers awkwardly as he pulls the glass from Sylvain’s lips, not gracefully enough to prevent a few last dribbles from cascading their way down his chin.

Sylvain just looks back at him. Then his eyes shift briefly around the room. “You all have to,” breathe, “clean up after me, huh.”

Felix gathers after a moment he must be talking about the bedpan. “We went through the war,” he replies, stiffly. Put a sword through a man’s gut often enough and you get used to a certain stench. It was the same thing they smelled in the medical tents, men losing themselves in pieces rather than all at once. Sylvain will know what he means.

Now, Sylvain’s leaning back against his pile of pillows again. His eyes are half-lidded, like staying awake requires a considerable deal of effort, and he’s still looking at Felix. “Missed you,” he says, six months of separation finally suddenly here and real and hitting hard, a crossbow bolt in the gut. Felix’s jaw tightens.

“I missed you too.” For some reason, it’s important that he _does not_ cry in front of Sylvain. “I was looking forward to hearing more of your stories. Instead you show up like this.” He knows Sylvain can both hear and see his false disdain. It’s a hook for him to grab.

Sylvain huffs a laugh. It wants to be bigger, but his lungs keep it inside. “That’s me,” he manages, trying very hard to sound like his old self and sounding all the more diminished for it, “Always… subverting expectations.”

Maybe if you didn’t know him. Maybe if you’d looked at him six years ago and had seen nothing but a prancing womanizer who didn’t care about other peoples’ hearts, you’d be surprised that he’d have grown into his duty as Margrave Gautier and gone on to forge a hard-won peace with one of Fódlan’s oldest enemies. But to Felix, Sylvain is not surprising. He’s steady, constant.

He’s not supposed to be _dying_. Especially not like this.

“Is there anything I can do?” Felix asks, stumbling. “To… make you more comfortable.”

His own voice comes out so awkward again that he’s afraid Sylvain is going to call him out. _Writing me off for dead already, Felix?_ or something to that effect.

Sylvain is still, still looking at him, like there’s nothing else to look at in the world. Like he’s studying for a test, and has to memorize every word of him. “No,” he breathes, his voice whistling from his chest. “This is good.” 

* * *

By the time he remembers to try and track down the others, Sylvain has already fallen back asleep. He seems less fitful than before, something Felix notes while hoping it isn’t his own wishful imagination.

He finds the girls huddled together in the drawing room and gives them the news: Sylvain had been lucid for nearly thirty minutes, alert (more or less) and speaking in complete sentences. Ingrid looks relieved and overjoyed. Mercedes only looks at Hamsa, whose face gives no indication of surprise.

“The medicine should relieve some of the symptoms,” she agrees, “but it’s palliative. His lungs will still struggle. This is something his body will have to fight off on its own.”

Her clinical tone betrays neither optimism nor pessimism. Mercedes steps in. “But if it means we can more easily give him food and water, it’ll buy us valuable time,” she says. “It’s a wonderful thing to have.”

If it relieves some of Sylvain’s suffering, it’s absolutely the best thing they’ve got, Felix thinks. He likes Hamsa. He’ll ask Dimitri to be generous towards her if Sylvain actually survives this.

When Ingrid’s initial relief wears off, she’s annoyed at Felix, though she’s clearly trying not to be. She corners him outside the hallway when they’re preparing to sleep. “ _Tell me_ next time he’s awake,” she pleads, desperate in a way that few people will ever get to see. “I’m not being kept in the dark, I’ve heard from Mercedes how serious this is. I want him to know I’m here, too.”

Felix agrees, _I will_ , but privately he knows that nothing could have made him leave that chair, not with Sylvain looking at him like that.

He should say something. _One_ of them should, assuming Sylvain does return his feelings. Since the war’s end, Felix’s mind, now aware of its own intentions, has always whispered: _later_. After the reconstruction of Fhirdiad. After the first harvest is dealt with. After Sylvain returns from Sreng. And now for the first time, he has to cope with the fact that there might not be an after, or a later. Maybe it’s only now.

* * *

Despite the relief Hamsa’s medicine brings, Felix learns too soon what she’d meant about it being palliative – something to comfort, not to heal. A battle for Sylvain to fight on his own. Felix has already been on one end of a war of attrition, and he’d never wanted to see another.

Sylvain has lost a lot of weight. He still has trouble keeping food down, and spends most of the day asleep, though his lips and eyes are pale like he hasn’t rested at all. Felix isn’t offended when Sylvain falls asleep during their brief conversations, more and more often now, but it widens the pit of dread in his stomach every time.

The rest of their friends are all coming, and Felix isn’t stupid. He knows why Mercedes has sent for them. For that matter he knows why they’ve all dropped family obligations and important affairs to come riding to the Fraldarius estate on a moment’s notice. And he can’t be angry at them, for coming off of their horses with condolences ready like Sylvain is already in the ground, or that is he _shouldn’t_ be angry.

How is he supposed to feel when Faerghus’ _King_ dismounts from his horse to put a steady hand on Felix’s shoulder, then pull him into an embrace? When he should be back in Fhirdiad, safeguarding the peace they all should have lived to see for another fifty years, at least?

In spite of everything he’s happy to see Annette again, yet when her lip wobbles and she has to stifle something into Felix’s chest his heart feels leaden. This wasn’t supposed to reach her. This wasn’t supposed to reach any of them, this wasn’t supposed to happen, any of it.

* * *

“Smells amazing,” Sylvain says, after Ashe brings out something for him to try, when it’s put close to his nose. “I’d try it, but,” and then does a little gesture with his hand pantomiming throwing it back up. He tries to smile while he does it, like he’s telling a joke.

Ashe forces a little laugh, but it’s not an easy one. Felix thinks he sees Dedue’s hand go somewhere around Ashe’s lower back. The little steadying gesture makes him feel almost sick with bitterness.

“Would you like to try a special blend of tea?” Dedue rumbles, unwavered. “In Duscur it was used to settle stomachs.”

“-‘ll try,” Sylvain manages, his smile more grateful now. “Thanks Dedue.”

Dedue nods and leaves the room. Felix watches as Ashe awkwardly hands the treat to Annette, who gobbles it up without a second thought. She’s clearly still trying not to cry. Felix feels numb. He knows from their conversations Sylvain has had a hard time smelling anything for days without feeling sick. This gathering is, as it was fated to be, for _their_ sake, not his.

Ingrid suddenly exhales bracingly, before producing a bundle from her bag. “You must be going crazy, stuck up in bed,” she says to Sylvain. “I thought we could all play a game together, if you’re up for it.”

Felix’s gaze tracks from the hopeful look on Ingrid’s face to Sylvain. He sees him just in time for the careful mask to go over his face. “S’ a good idea, Ingrid,” he says. “How ‘bout teams?”

The suggestion is so naturally-posed, but Felix sees it for what it is. “Fine with me,” he says, almost too quickly, and leans in next to Sylvain while Ingrid shuffles the cards before anyone can start calling partners.

Back at Garreg Mach – before the war, before anything – there’d been casual games sometimes, in the common rooms, and in the classrooms. Felix didn’t care about getting competitive over something as stupid as cards – really, he didn’t, regardless of what Sylvain said - but he knew a few of them did. Ingrid, for one. Annette too, and she was easy to read about it. Sylvain was hard to play cards against. He was an excellent bullshitter. Mercedes was toughest of all, like playing cards against the Goddess statue. Nothing revealed, nothing conveyed, at least until she showed her hand and trounced you.

The game they play now is subdued, quiet. Even the laughs feel designed.

Felix isn’t sure who’s winning or who’s won, or even if they’re done with the game when Sylvain says,

“Hey guys… thanks for coming to see me.”

“Of course,” Ingrid says, filling the empty space with steadfast affection. “And we’ll be here every day until you’re better.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Listen.”

The air in the room is deathly still. If it weren’t for the sounds of Sylvain’s labored breathing, there would be total silence among them. “You’ve done so much for me,” he says at last. “I’m grateful to have you as friends.”

Bullshit, Felix wants to say, Except for Mercedes what has any of us ever gotten to do for you?

Annette fails to not cry this time. Ingrid steadies her stiff lip. “You don’t get to talk like that,” she scolds. “Don’t talk like you’ve already given up.”

“I haven’t,” Sylvain protests weakly. “I don’t _want_ to-“

This fake reality is unravelling fast as Ingrid turns away and sobs quietly. Dedue clears his throat. It’s so sudden that everyone looks shaken into surprise. “This is not productive,” Dedue says. “We should allow you to rest for a while. Come.”

Dimitri puts a heavy hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. Byleth steadies Annette. Ashe looks like he’s leaning into Dedue. Mercedes looks over her shoulder as she leaves the room. Felix is staying right where he is.

There’s no use pretending about an _after_. He’s finally accepted that. “Sylvain,” he begins.

“S’okay, Felix,” Sylvain says, closing his eyes as he opens his palm in a wordless gesture. Felix takes it. “People need to cry.”

“I need to tell you something.”

His seriousness comes through. Sylvain looks at him. He’s trying hard to focus on him now, his eyes clear and sharp for the first time in what feels like forever.

Felix’s skittering resolve strengthens. He may never get another moment like this one, and _that’s_ what makes it the right time.

“I love you,” he says, forcing himself to hold his gaze. Somehow it’s the bravest he’s felt in all his life. “I love you… Sylvain.”

He doesn’t know what expression he expects to come over Sylvain, but he does expect _some_ reaction. Sylvain’s face does not change, except his eyebrows shift into something softer, almost sad. “I love you too, Felix,” he says. “For a long time.”

Why does he feel like crying? Now, of all times. He’d always imagined this confession going differently, maybe with some harsh words and misunderstandings and more than a little awkwardness because that was how Felix tended to get when his own feelings were at stake. Instead it’d been the easiest thing in the world. “Bastard,” Felix mutters, and Sylvain chokes a laugh, startled.

“-t was that for?”

“You should’ve told me earlier,” Felix says, even as he leans in to claim Sylvain’s mouth.

They’ve kissed before, during their trysts in the war. Those kisses had been hungry, desperate, gasping hot and so so good. Now Sylvain has the nerve to hesitate, as if Felix cares what his mouth tastes like or that his breath stinks. Then he gets the picture.

Felix kisses Sylvain like it’s another dimension he can escape into. He refuses to accept that the universe will take him away without a fight, he’ll breathe the life back into him himself if he has to. The way Sylvain kisses back, he _has_ to want to live just for this.

When they pull apart, Sylvain gasps, “check my pocket.”

Felix gives him an unusual look. It’s only the gravity of their situation that stops him from assuming it’s some kind of dirty joke. “You don’t have pockets,” he says, carefully.

“My coat,” Sylvain manages.

After a moment, it clicks. _The parka._ The symbol of peace and friendship to come, or something like that; the emblem of Sylvain’s entire mission with the Sreng. Felix had been steadfast about not burning it. “Wait here,” he says, redundantly. Sylvain’s too tired or too generous to laugh at his blunder.

He finds the parka exactly where he’d stowed it weeks ago, hanging in a disused storage closet. Mercedes had asked him to keep his distance if he was going to keep it, just in case, and he wasn’t nosy. He wasn’t going to go through Sylvain’s belongings without asking.

Not unless he-

Shaking that thought away, Felix picks up the parka and returns to Sylvain’s room with it. He half-expects to find him asleep again, but Sylvain is still propped up against the pillows awake as he watches Felix re-enter, though his eyelids flutter as if he’d been resting them.

Felix sets down the coat on the table nearby and combs through it. He can tell Sylvain wants to help – it must be frustrating watching him. “Ah, not that,” Sylvain says when Felix produces a wrapped sheath he can only imagine is for a hunting knife. “But you’cn have it. From Sreng.”

“It’s yours, then,” Felix says stubbornly, even as he pulls the knife from its leather bundling and gives it an assessing eye. “Well-made.”

Sylvain’s eyes twinkle. “Knew you’d say that,” he says. “Inner pocket…”

This time Felix turns his attention to the interior of the coat. It takes some prodding, but he eventually manages to locate a small pocket sewn into the soft leather lining. This parka is clever work, much as he’d cursed its apparently needless complexity. He pulls out a small hempen pouch tied with string, and what looks like a letter, then shows both to Sylvain.

“Don’t read that,” Sylvain says about the folded piece of wrinkled parchment in his hand. Then, correcting himself with a pained-sounding chuckle, “-can when I’m dead.”

“Shut up,” Felix growls as his heart constricts painfully again. He’s agonizingly curious about the letter, but sets it aside and lifts the small pouch. This time Sylvain nods, heavily. Felix unties the string.

Out falls a small circle of polished stone, cold in the warm of Felix’s palm. His fingers tent towards it instinctively, keeping it sheltered in his grasp. It’s beautiful, cool silvery grey at first glance, swirls of subtle blue and violet in its grit as it trembles in Felix’s palm. No, it’s his whole hand that’s trembling.

Felix looks at Sylvain as if he doesn’t understand what meaning a ring could have.

“The Sreng don’t have marriage exactly,” Sylvain rumbles, voice carefully-formed, “but they carve these for their partners. My first few were-“ he suddenly breaks into a ragged cough as Felix’s body tenses like it’s preparing for battle. “- _bad_ ,” he finishes finally, attempting a smile.

Felix notices for the first time the leather cord included in the pouch. Maybe Sylvain meant for him to wear it around his neck. Nonetheless he tries the ring over his finger, exhaling steadily as it slides down with minimal resistance.

When he looks up, Sylvain is watching him like Felix is the only thing worth living for.

“Wish I could marry you,” he whispers.

An idea is taking shape in this still and silent room. “All our friends are here,” Felix points out slowly. He watches as disbelief dawns on Sylvain’s face.

“ _Felix_ ,” he says.

“Marry me,” Felix repeats. His tone is steady, sure, surer than he’s ever felt.

“I - can’t.”

“You can’t say two words?” Felix snarks with a scowl he clearly doesn’t mean. “I didn’t think you were _that_ much of an invalid.” He sees Sylvain smile, in spite of himself.

“I can’t marry you and _die_ ,” Sylvain begins to protest.

“Then marry me and _don’t_ die,” Felix snaps.

There are what look like tears glistening in Sylvain’s eyes. Felix turns away.

“ _Please_ ,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t remember if he’s ever had to ask Sylvain for anything in all his life. He’s always known what Felix needs before anyone else, even Felix himself. He’s always been there. Always. “Please.”

“Okay,” he hears, gentle and quiet. “Let’s get married, Felix.”

* * *

Not so long ago, the idea of going to Dimitri about this would’ve ranked high among things Felix would’ve liked to avoid. The Felix of now doesn’t care. After Sylvain falls asleep again he goes straight to Dimitri and Byleth, pulling them out of conversation with the others and jumping straight into business.

“I want to marry Sylvain,” is what he says.

For the second time that day, the reaction he gets to his confession is different than what he expects. Dimitri and Byleth exchange a look and nod.

“Of course,” Dimitri says. “Of course, Felix. Will you let us tell the others?”

Their friends don’t let him off so easily. Ashe and Ingrid look like they’re going to cry. Annette is predictable and wants at least a day to prepare, nothing fancy, she promises, but Mercedes gently suggests that the sooner, the better. How about tonight?, she offers. Felix nods heavily. He doesn’t look at Annette, but he can feel her start to take shaking breaths beside him.

“Someone should tell Sylvain,” Ingrid says, finally collecting herself as she draws close. “Felix, can I…?”

Felix can’t do anything but nod again. He’s unprepared for Ingrid suddenly pulling him into another hug. This time he leans in, rests his head against her shoulder, attempts to breathe steady while she squeezes him tighter.

“All he’s wanted to do for so long is marry you,” she says next to his ear. Felix’s brow wrinkles.

“What?”

“We discussed it in our letters,” Ingrid explains, pulling away just enough to see the confusion on Felix’s face. “His friend in Sreng was showing him how to make a ring, I-“ she sees the band on Felix’s hand for the first time when he lifts it to show her and stares at it. “It’s beautiful.”

“…It is,” Felix agrees. His heart feels like it’s turning inside out.

After Ingrid leaves to be with Sylvain, Felix sits with the others. For the very first time, he chooses to be next to Dedue. The man offers him nothing but a stoic nod, his eyes gentle. Felix lets his eyes close for a moment.

* * *

Annette may not be able to go as all-out as she wants to, but she does insist, at least, on helping Felix with his outfit. Felix puts up a fuss at first: what does it matter what his _hair_ looks like, but Annette only tuts as she brings the brush forcibly through his mangled locks.

“You _have_ to look handsome for your husband,” she insists as she works. “I’m sorry Felix, but those are just the rules.”

It’s like she’s her normal self again, and something in Felix relaxes for the first time in what feels like an age. And then she reprimands him for being so _skinny_ and not taking care of himself, and the natural reply to that (that Sylvain looks far worse) makes him tense up again.

“Sylvain always looks good in anything,” Annette muses as she flips through a few tunics of varying colors, unable to read his thoughts. “I wonder what he’ll wear.” Probably whatever Ingrid can find that’ll fit him, Felix thinks. He wonders whether she and Mercedes are giving Sylvain similar platitudes and pretending like everything is normal.

Eventually, it’s time. Byleth catches him just before he heads to Sylvain’s room. “Are you ready?” is all she asks.

Felix throws a quick glance over his shoulder, where Annette and the others are trailing them, all at a distance. “Is this an official marriage?” he dares to ask, quiet. He remembers Dimitri’s wording from before: _there is room to have those conversations, if you should want._

Byleth’s expression doesn’t change. “It will be the first church-recognized marriage between two men in all of Faerghus,” she says. “But not the last.”

Felix swallows. He knows in this moment the two of them must have anticipated this before they left Fhirdiad. “Thank you,” he says.

“Go,” she tells him.

* * *

He’s grateful when he walks into the room and finds nothing much changed. The curtains are drawn, but the evening light is fading fast; candles illuminate the faces of their friends as they line the little room. Felix looks at Sylvain on the bed.

He hadn’t been expecting much of a transformation, in fact he’d been holding out hope that Mercedes and Ingrid might leave him be and let him rest, so what he sees stops him in his tracks.

Sylvain looks _good_. His hair is washed. He’s clean-shaven. Felix isn’t sure where those clothes came from – maybe some long-distant relative of his, their possessions forgotten somewhere in the Fraldarius estate – but somehow they fit Sylvain’s large, angular frame without swallowing him, and their rich green pigments enliven the red of his hair. What catches Felix off-guard most of all is the healthy color in Sylvain’s face – but this, he knows, is more of Mercie’s work. There’s no other logical explanation.

Annette nudges him, and Felix turns to see a smile on her face. “Aren’t you glad I got you all cleaned up?” she says, fondly, and this time Felix can’t help a little smile too.

Sylvain looks tired, but sincerely happy when Felix goes to join him by the bed. “Felix,” he says, reverently. “You look-“

“You too,” Felix blurts, not letting him finish whatever embarrassing compliment he’d been about to throw out in front of everyone they’ve ever cared about. “You didn’t have to go through any trouble.”

“Yes I did,” Sylvain protests. “You only get married once. ‘Least that’s the idea…”

“He insisted,” Ingrid says, gently as if she isn’t sure whether she’s supposed to interrupt them. “We weren’t trying to tire him out.”

Byleth mercifully swoops in, and Felix is grateful. He can’t stand for any attempts at pointless ceremony. “Ready to begin?” she asks both of them.

Sylvain takes Felix’s hand and holds it gently over the bedsheets with a squeeze.

“Ready, professor,” he says.

* * *

A short while later, Felix rests beside his new husband, listening to the sound of his steady heartbeat like it carries a message for him.

The vows had been blessedly short, and the ceremony over and done with after a few words and a kiss. Then the others had dispersed, few of them dry-eyed despite the brevity of the event, save for Mercedes, who tried to extract an awkward promise that they not exert themselves afterwards. Felix is grateful for all that she’s done, but he sends her off with a stare and makes no such promise.

Anyway, she shouldn’t have bothered. Felix helps Sylvain out of the lustrous fabrics and into some clean nightclothes and helps him wash his face, then gets changed himself. By the time he returns to the bed, Sylvain is already fast asleep. Felix tucks himself in beside him without a word and tries not to feel alone.

 _Here – if I get in there next to you, is that better? …_ He remembers Sylvain years ago, taking care of Felix back when he was a small, sick child in the Gautier estate. He’d taken him for granted. Not just then, but for nearly twenty years afterwards.

He’d always been so sure Sylvain would be there. For as long as Felix needed him to be.

A dizzying sensation comes over him again. Felix knows he should have slept more – and probably eaten, too – but it’s Arianrhod all over again. Those things don’t feel important. The others have been trying to be diligent, but Sylvain’s the only one who can trick Felix into making time for himself.

When he shifts in bed for the hundredth time that night, he cursedly wakes Sylvain.

“Felix,” he hears murmured near his ear. “Can’t sleep?”

“I’m sorry,” Felix mumbles, guilt flooding up through him. Sylvain just presses closer against him.

“-need to take care of yourself,” Sylvain whispers. A hand find Felix’s hip and rests there. “Promise?”

Why do I need to promise, Felix thinks as his eyes well up. You can make sure of it, like you always have.

“I will,” he replies, making a vow for the second time that day, although all he can think about is their first one from all those years ago.

Was that not a promise.

* * *

“Felix!!”

“Felix, are you okay?! Here, sit down-“

“Someone get him some water!”

Felix slowly comes back to awareness. The ceiling – the wallpaper – he’s outside the drawing room of the estate. Being moved to sit on the floor, someone’s hands grabbing at his back. Annette? Ingrid?

“I _told_ him to take better care of himself,” Annette’s voice laments.

The last few weeks - it hadn’t been a dream. None of it was, the hope had barely lasted a few seconds. He feels the steady weight of the ring on his finger. _Sylvain_ -

Someone – _goddess, Dimitri_ – is lifting him over his protestations. “It’ll be okay, Felix,” Dimitri says, infuriatingly. “Let’s get you rested up for a bit.”

 _No,_ Felix thinks when they place him back in bed and the room _swims_. He tries to sit up and struggles. His skin feels hot. He needs to be there for Sylvain. He needs to-

_Goddess, don’t be so cruel as to take even these final days from me._

He turns to the side, but Sylvain is asleep. He can’t hear him.

Felix falls under its pull, too.

* * *

Felix has only been sick like this three times in his life before now, and each time Sylvain had been there to take care of him. It’s only fitting that he has a dream like this.

Sylvain is sitting, upright, on the bedside, their positions reversed. He’s diligent as he wipes the sweat from Felix’s brow, kind as he tilts the water down his throat.

 _No,_ Felix tries to say, _no,_ you’re _the one I need to be there for right now. What if I wake up and you’re already gone?_

“Shh, Felix,” Dream Sylvain says. “Shh. I’ll take care of you. What do you need?”

 _Let me wake up_ , Felix thinks. _If Sylvain knows_ I _got sick too-_

He opens and closes his mouth senselessly, but no words come out. Sylvain takes his hand.

“I’ll be here,” Sylvain says, in a quiet, raspy voice. “I promise I’ll be here with you, Felix. Whenever you need me. It’s okay, you can rest.”

And like a traitor, Felix does.

* * *

When Felix’s fever breaks, he’s in his old bedroom. His clothes are clean and so are the sheets. He’s alone.

First he drifts, not understanding, but then the memories return all at once and terror lances through his heart.

_Alone._

“ _Mercedes,_ ” he attempts, but his voice isn’t made for speaking anymore. Ignoring the weakness in his body he pushes out of the bed and collapses onto the floor with a loud _thud_.

Turns out that’s a good way to get someone’s attention.

It’s Ingrid who sweeps into the room, gathering Felix in her arms and making noises that sound happy as she maneuvers him to sit back on the bed. “Felix,” she cries, her face is turned up in a smile that looks _joyous_. “Thank the Goddess! How do you feel?”

“Sylvain,” Felix blurts. He can’t hold back the tears anymore, he can’t stand Ingrid’s relieved face and waits for it to crumple at the mention of his name. “Where is he?”

Ingrid’s face _doesn’t_ crumple, it does something else, it flickers like she knows something Felix doesn’t. He’s about ready to shake the answers out of her before-

_“Felix!”_

Felix turns and sees the impossible.

_I’m still dreaming._

“Careful!” Ingrid exclaims as Sylvain suddenly stumbles mid-step, catching him just in time. Felix is too shocked to react from his place on the floor. “Mercie said to go easy!” she chides him.

“Sorry, Ingrid,” Sylvain says distantly, but in the next breath he stops heeding her. One step more and then his knees hit the ground in front of Felix, and then he’s here, warm and solid and alive. Felix is surrounded on all sides by him. The embrace is painfully tight and better than any sensation he’s ever felt.

Felix is too tired to understand. He just clings as hard as he can, not remembering to stop crying as Sylvain presses in tighter.

“I’ve got you, Felix,” Sylvain babbles. “I’m here.”

If this is a dream, it’s kinder than the ones Felix has known. He’ll fight to keep hold of it with all his strength. “Don’t go,” he chokes out, forgetting everything but how to breathe and how to hold Sylvain.

“I’m not going anywhere, Felix,” he hears, Sylvain’s voice low and ragged from somewhere so close it feels like they’ve melded. “You brought me home with you, remember?”

Felix tries to laugh. Pressed so fast against Sylvain, it’s more like a cough. The pressure lifts as Sylvain pulls away, but his hands don’t leave him.

“I wanted to be here when you woke up,” Sylvain says. His hair is wet and he smells clean. “But from now on, I will be. Every morning I’ll be there when you open your eyes. In sickness and in health, you know.”

“Until we die,” Felix breathes. “Together.”

* * *

Felix _does_ understand, later. He learns the full truth: that the Gautier riders had returned from Sreng soon after Felix had taken ill, bearing knowledge of how to produce the cure as well as generous bundles of the plants and herbs that would make treatment most effective.

After an unsure 24 hours of waiting, Sylvain’s condition had begun to rapidly improve. His cough lessened. He became able to keep down food. With that came less of a need to sleep. Within days he was able to take tentative steps on his own again. Felix listens with amazement. It all sounds so simple. Nothing in Garreg Mach’s greenhouse had ever particularly interested him, and yet some simple greenery had meant the difference between life and death for Sylvain, a difference for Felix that is living versus unliving.

As for Felix, Sylvain explains with a little smile, he hadn’t had the wasting fever (as the Sreng themselves called it), which was spread through the bite of insects, not from contact with the sick. Whatever Felix had suffered, it was born from and exacerbated from stress and his own poor sleep. Rest and care were what he needed after all in the end.

“I never meant to make you worry so much about me,” Sylvain says as he combs his fingers lightly through Felix’s hair. Felix snorts.

“As if there were ever any other option.”

They’re still getting used to – this. Being able to touch each other like this. Exploring without the pall of death hanging between them. Felix lies back on the bed and traces the shape of Sylvain’s ring finger. Still a bit bony, he thinks, compared to what it might become in a few weeks time. He’s impatient to have his mother’s wedding ring resized. Sylvain’s hand looks wrong without a claim on it.

Sylvain’s other hand suddenly fumbles down towards Felix’s stomach and Felix jumps, then twists when Sylvain lightly caresses him there. He’ll put him in the grave himself if Sylvain learns he’s still ticklish. “What are you doing,” he hisses through his teeth as Sylvain pulls away and laughs.

“I spent so long in Sreng thinking about all the places I wanted to touch you,” Sylvain says dreamily. “Random places, just learning everything bit by bit. For real this time, not like during the war.”

“Assuming I would say yes,” Felix points out, sharp like he can hide his flushing cheeks, though of course Sylvain’s assumption was correct.

“Maybe I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me,” Sylvain says with a wink. Felix rolls his eyes, but he knows that overconfidence is _definitely_ a front.

Felix turns over on his side, bracing his face in one hand as he turns to look at Sylvain. Sylvain looks back at him curiously as Felix’s hand roams over his (unfairly non-ticklish) stomach, pinching the beginnings of fat between his fingertips, pleased to see it settling back in on him.

“I wanted you to ask,” he tells him, unwavering. Sylvain’s jocular expression dissolves into something soft and unguarded.

Then he rises from the bed.

“Where are you going?” Felix asks in the moment before Sylvain stops in front of the dresser and produces an envelope nestled within one of the drawers. Recognition dawns, though he’d forgotten until now.

Envelope in hands, Sylvain stands with it a moment, hesitating.

“Proposing to you felt like something I should do in person, but I started to worry I’d be springing it on you. I thought about writing you a letter so I could give you time to think about how you felt.” Sylvain laughs and sounds almost nervous. “Eventually I decided I’d be useless up in Sreng waiting for your response, but for some reason I still wrote it.”

Felix’s eyes are locked to the parchment, now. “That’s a letter for me?” he asks.

Nonchalant expression back in place, Sylvain takes a seat back on the bed and opens the letter. “Want me to read it?” he offers with a flourish. “It’s going to embarrass you.“ His voice hasn’t sounded hoarse for almost a week now, and Felix could listen to it all day for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” Felix breathes. It seems like Sylvain was half-expecting him to decline.

His husband manages a nod. “Okay.” And then he takes a shaky breath, starting from the top. “Felix,…”

* * *

It is five months since peace with Sreng, one month since peace with Almyra, and fifteen months since the end of the war. Dimitri and Byleth demur and shake credit wherever they can, but it sticks to them like a good story. Neither has ever been the type keen on planning parties, but peace in Fódlan feels like a worthy occasion. 

They seem more excited by the idea of giving the Duke and Margrave a proper wedding ceremony, in the capitol.

Growing up, Felix had always dreaded the idea of weddings: engagements were drawn out, vows were neverending, and marriage itself was forever. That was how he’d always viewed the institution, as something to be avoided at all costs if he could help it. Yet in the end he’d been the one to suggest the idea to Sylvain. He needed all of Fódlan to know how much he loved this man, not because he cared, but because Sylvain deserved to see it.

And so he said yes to everything: the finery, the feasting, the fancy carriage, all of it.

“It is my pleasure to bear witness to the happiness of two of my very dearest friends,” Dimitri says to the assembled crowd with a raised glass, “and celebrate not only their achievements towards the reign of peace in Fódlan, but also their love, forged through both hardship and enduring tenderness.”

Sylvain had filled out his wedding finery perfectly, practically glowing with health and happiness. He was the smooth-talking Margrave who had brokered a hard-won peace with the Sreng, as well as the most beloved husband of a Duke.

“It’s a very romantic story,” Annette explains to Felix later, attempting to illustrate for him the fascination of her students: a Duke pledging his hand to the Margrave while the man hovers on the edge of death, desperate to tie their lives together while they still breathe the same air of this world. Thinking of students on the other side of Fódlan poring over their tale makes him feel strange, but he doesn’t mind it. Call that another surprise.

Toasting his husband and all of their friends, Felix thinks back to a phrase contained in the letter, then later in Sylvain’s wedding vows:

_There’s no one else I trust with my love, my happiness, and my life._

**Author's Note:**

> felix got dimitri to buy hamsa (the palace healer) a mercedes (benz)
> 
> thanks for reading :)


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